


The Rite of Spring

by shadow13



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blue Mountains | Ered Luin, Dwarves In Exile, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-The Hobbit, Ritual Sex, fertility ritual, got jrrt spinning in his grave so hard he could be used as a source of perpetual energy, practically PWP, yeah - yeah........
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow13/pseuds/shadow13
Summary: The part of Yavanna was always played by someone from the Shire, and the part of Aulë by one of the dwarves of the Blue Mountains.At the yearly spring festival, the chosen representatives of the valar engage in the marriage rite to ensure prosperity and wealth for the Shire and the Mountains. Unfortunately, this year, young Bilbo Baggins was the one chosen to be the Lady of Trees.The one set to play the Smith has him rethinking his poor fortune.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 23
Kudos: 177





	The Rite of Spring

**Author's Note:**

> I debated a lot about which name would be used in the Shire for Yavanna, and ultimately went with the Quenya one – though I'm not ENTIRELY convinced the valar are important figures in the Shire outside of fanon. But I'm a sucker for this, uh.....type of AU, so here we are.  
> Deepest apologies to JRRT, who would be rolling in his grave. I'm normally so respectful, Ronald, but I had to.

The part of Yavanna was always played by someone from the Shire, and the part of Aulë by one of the dwarves of the Blue Mountains, which made sense. It was well worth looking forward to, the high-point of spring when the planting was done and the weather was warm. The festivities lasted for days, dwarves and hobbits selling wares to one another, food and games, dances and entertainment. The dwarves would perform a very intricate dance with axes, too, and once with lit torches, and it was something to be spoken of in awe for months after.

And Bilbo was looking forward to it, too, as he usually was – until everything went completely wrong.

His mother got the truth out of him when he could barely eat his supper, and wouldn't even have pudding. She sat at the edge of his bed, stroking his gold-brown curls as if he were not nearly of majority, and said, “Did something happen today, Bilbo?”

“I found the golden pimpernel today, when I was out mushroom hunting.” It came out all in a rush, and at first he was pale, but then his cheeks went red to admit it.

Belladonna startled at that, though she instantly worked to smooth that over. “Did you pick it?” She tried to make the question sound idle, looking at the coverlet, but they both knew it was anything but. Her son shook his head, and she tsk-ed at him. “Bilbo, you know it's extremely bad fortune not to take the summons.” Yes, he knew that...Violet Frisby had refused to take up the pimpernel, and that very same summer, all of the family's pigs died, foxes got into the hen house and killed the flock, her mother succumbed to an ague, and Violet herself was now, some forty years later, an old maid and considered by many to be mad.

“I-I just thought,” he stammered, swallowing hard. “It's so late in the season – someone else must have found the first one, and I just hadn't heard, that's all!”

“Bilbo Baggins,” she scoffed, incredulous, but she couldn't look at him. “Well, I should say. Stars and garters. Well indeed.” At last she stood up, saying, “Your father will have something to say about this in the morning, so you'd best get to sleep.”

But he heard them the next morning, before he'd finished getting dressed: “Bungo, he's only twenty-nine! It would be indecent!”

He could hear the way his father spoke around his pipe, clenched in his teeth. “Pearl Bunce was only twenty-five, it's no real harm.”

“I hardly think a girl like _Pearl Bunce_ should be compared to _our_ son.”

“Heavens to mercy, Bell, what are we supposed to do? He has to at least pick it! He can back out during the ceremony if he must, but he has to pick it.”

* * *

It was a well-known fact that the spring festival guaranteed a good harvest and, while it was a great excuse for a party, was a very serious matter! It officially began every year, at least in the Shire, with the finding of the golden pimpernel – a peculiar little star-shaped flower that was said to be of elvish extraction. Whomsoever found the flower was chosen by Yavanna for that year's celebration, and it was a mark of enormous import. To reject Yavanna's summons was to be ungrateful, and many a failed crop had been blamed on finders who hadn't taken their responsibilities seriously enough.

It didn't matter, of course, if the hobbit who found the flower happened to be a boy. Yavanna, after all, presented as female merely out of preference, but was beyond all such concepts. Male or female, the hobbit was the Green Lady, and the Dwarf was the Smith. And gender mattered as little in that role, too, for Bilbo remembered when Gilbert Burrow had been selected as Yavanna, and had come out of the sanctuary the next day in a swoon, eager to tell all his friends and all young, rascally hobbits that wished to listen, that there really _were_ dwarf women, and they were wonderful things indeed.

Cousin Fortinbras had listened in awe. “What was she like?”

“Covered in hair,” Gil had said, motioning with his hands all the places the dwarrowdam had been furred, which was quite extensive, and also a bit bawdy. “And so soft, and so sweet smelling...” He had sighed dramatically, and looked sick with love. “Cor, if only me da would let me go to the mountains, I'd fight the dwarf king for her!”

“That would be rich!” They all laughed. “You'd get your pate knocked clean off!”

Bilbo had wondered idly at the time, and occasionally since, if anything ever became of that union between Gilbert and his lady Smith. It was, after all, a fertility festival...He wasn't sure it was possible, but Old Gammidgy always insisted that it was what put Celest Sandheaver in the family way, and they had a corker of a blacksmith from her son. Riq Sandheaver was a bit over four feet in height, and had been known to wrestle young bulls into their pens, so there was certainly weight to the idea....

But of course, sometimes the one Yavanna chose simply wasn't ready. One had to heed the summons, one didn't have to perform – that was half the point of the ritual, making the choice. It was stated every single year by the mayor and by the dwarven diplomat, no one was _forced_ to enter the chamber. There was no shame in backing out.

Of course, they _said_ that, but: but, Mimsy Brewster had come out crying because she just couldn't do it, and had been comforted by her mother, but the oat harvest was particularly bad that year, and there was a great deal of grumbling. Moreover, forever after, those chosen to be Yavanna were warned against, “Pulling a Mimsy.”

So, Bilbo knew better. If no one really had found that flower yet, he was going to have to pick it – and he was going to have to, ahem, gird his loins and go through with it.

Perhaps it was foolish, but he really did cling to the hope that he was simply out of date on news. Why, if it was found by someone in Marish, he wouldn't hear for days and days! His mother took him with her to the market, and he stood quiet and a little sullen while carrying her purchases, but Belladonna was on a mission.

“Uncommonly good weather, this,” she hummed, fingering a swatch of yellow brocade. “I say, Petunia, this is nice. Where did you get it?”

“The Big Men what sold it to me out of Bree said it came clear from Harad!”

“Oh, next you'll tell me it was made by oliphaunts.” The two women laughed and Bilbo rolled his eyes, sweat beginning to drip against his collar.

“Mother...”

“Hush, Bilbo.” She was craftier than he was, she knew not to press her hand too early. “Such a pretty color, almost gold – like a spring pimpernel!” She smiled winningly at Petunia, almost guileless. “You know, I haven't heard that anyone's found it yet....the gold pimpernel, I mean. Seems awfully late.”

“No one has, to my hearing,” the old seamstress replied, folding out more rolls of cloth for customers.

“Oh, that's impossible! It's practically mid-May! Petunia, you just aren't getting the latest, I'm sure of it.”

That was enough to offend the woman, who fisted her hands at her hips. “I get better news and history at this stall than could be got at the Mathom-house! Not getting the- well, _you_ haven't heard either, Mrs. Baggins!”

“You're too right.” She set the cloth down. “I should never have doubted you.” Belladonna turned to her son with a very particular look in her eye. “Bilbo – we're going.” He swallowed hard, and felt like his collar must be soaked through by now.

* * *

A new suit of clothes had to be gotten for him, of course, befitting the occasion, and while normally he would have loved the opportunity for finery, now it was merely an uncomfortable reminder. Uncomfortable especially; the tailor had taken his measurements, but Bilbo had been steeling himself with a great deal of ale and sweets, so once delivered the waistcoat was tight around the middle, and the trousers pinched at the hip.

Still, it was a nice coat, green velvet with gold thread at the shoulders. He had to wear a flower crown tonight, too, and felt very ridiculous for it. It didn't help that everyone was congratulating him. “Hey ho, Bilbo!” Cousin Rory had come up with a mug of ale, and he looked to be well into his cups. “You look very well.”

“Kind of you to say so,” he muttered, looking with aching longing on Rory's cup. “Having a good time?”

“Aren't you?” his cousin asked, taking a long swig. “You're the toast of the Shire! I should think you'd like the attention. There are some who are supremely jealous.”

“Then I wish they'd found the flower.” He huffed and shoved a wayward blossom back onto the top of his head. “Some festival....You know, I can't have any drink until it's all over. And I can't go dancing and sight-seeing either – I'm to sit here, looking regal, until it's time to go in.”

“Hm.” Rory was a bit more sympathetic to that. “No, I suppose it isn't much fun playing Yavanna – at least not yet.” Bilbo did not appreciate the waggle of his young cousin's eyebrows. “Spotted your bridegroom yet?”

“Shut up,” he aimed a kick at him from his seat on the dais, but even this drunk, Rory was quite nimble, and he was laughing. “And no, I'm not to see him till we go in, or it's bad luck. If it is a him,” he suddenly puzzled. “Heavens, I have no idea either way, do I?”

“Which would you prefer?” He was going to find something to throw at Rory, but was stopped by the approach of the mayor.

“There's our Lady of Trees and Flowers!” Bilbo would have liked to crawl into a hole and die. “Doing well, I hope?”

“Actually,” he tried to keep the bite out of his tone, and mostly succeeded. “I'm famished.”

“Well,” the mayor tucked his thumbs into his pockets. “It's better not to do these things on a full stomach, believe you me. But as soon as you're done, you're welcome to join the rest of us in a fine feast.”

“Delightful.”

“Oh!” He caught sight of a signal from one of the dwarven organizers. “I do believe we're ready for your procession.” He offered his hand to help Bilbo off the platform, but the young hobbit waved him off, not at all wanting to be treated as a delicate thing. “Jolly good, Bilbo! Make us proud!” He was escorted through the throng of festival-goers, and cheered everywhere he went, which was not encouraging. He caught sight of his mother at one point, eyes brimming over with tears of pride that her little boy was so grown, and so important. Heaven save him...

The bridal chamber was apart from the rest of the festival, a niche carved into the very bedrock of the hill, no doubt by devoted dwarves of Aulë. It was quieter here, and a little darker, but it had all been prepared days before. Both a hobbit and a dwarf looked him over before the heavy, oaken door that led to the chamber. “You remember all the rituals?”

“Yes, yes, I remember...” He wasn't a child to need to be schooled.

But he hated more how they bowed before him. “Please go in, Lady Yavanna,” and they pulled open the door for him.

Ugh....Bilbo crossed the threshold, and it was shut behind him.

There were candles here, but not like the lamps of the festival, so it took his eyes a moment to adjust. It was cool inside, but not too cold, which was a relief – and clean, it had been carefully swept out from its year of disuse, as if it had been carefully tended all the time. It was a very small little chamber: a stone platform covered in cushions that Bilbo figured with horror was meant to be a bed; a stone table set with little alabaster dishes, and a flagon of wine and one silver cup; and then the altar to his right, set with candles and a small, wooden bowl. Above the candles was an image etched into the very rock – a tree, he realized, with a hammer in the center of its trunk. Aulë and Yavanna, feeding one another in perpetuity.

He startled slightly at movement across the room. In an alcove he hadn't even noticed, there was a dwarf in the shadows – well, of course there was, what did he expect, a spider? Bilbo didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't.....him.

He figured it was a him, anyway. For all Gilbert Burrow's bawdy tales, he really couldn't figure the difference between a dwarf man and a dwarf woman. But he was tall, with very thick, very black hair, and he had just a short little beard on his chin – damnation, that really could be man or woman. Bilbo felt his mouth going dry. Something about this person definitely said male, though, and the hobbit's fingers began to itch with his nerves. That hair was just something else, plaited with an elaborate braid at the crown; and his hands were so _broad_ , with black hair all down his arms. He had a very beautiful, blue cloak on as well, and Bilbo realized it was his partner's part of the ceremonial costume, just as his flower crown was – there were runes stitched in gold all along the hem. He wondered what they meant. But the blue brought out the fellow's eyes and they were.....well, they were something, for certain.

The dwarf stepped closer, and Bilbo almost stepped back in nerves. “H-hello.” Talking wasn't exactly against the rules, and heaven's sake, he had to do _something_. It made the other pause, at least. “H-how are you?”

The dwarf titled his head, blinking curiously at Bilbo, who was thinking, “Stars and garters, he has biceps like tree trunks,” and not much else. “Very well, thank you.” He swept back the cloak and bowed genteelly. “At your service.”

Bilbo bowed, though less ostentatiously. “Yours and your family's. Ah....” He had to stop staring. His eyes landed on the cup on the table. “Oh, yes, we're to have a drink, aren't we?” He framed it as a question to act as an opening, but for a fact he knew they were.

“Are you thirsty?” the other asked him, and his voice was very deep and rich. Oh my. Well, Aulë couldn't have picked a better Smith, that was for certain. This fellow looked carved straight out of the mountain. Bilbo wondered again, while feeling faint, how it was that dwarves were summoned to their role in the festival. Was it the first who found a certain crystal, the way he'd found the first golden pimpernel of the spring? Or did they have different symbols altogether?

“Yes, quite,” he answered, mouth dry. Before he had to so much as move, the dwarf had crossed to the table and filled the cup, bringing it to him. While this had been an excellent delaying tactic, Bilbo had neglected that it meant his “groom” would now approach him, and closely. More than that, their fingers would touch in holding the cup. More than _that_ , he now had to look up into those very blue eyes, and then say, “Thank you...”

How to get this over with....Should he just lie down on that slab of a bed, or haul off and kiss him? He didn't think he had the courage for that...And what was the dwarf thinking, in any case? Measuring his disappointment in his “bride?” Bilbo bent and took a drink of the wine. It was refreshingly cool, so it must have sat in this stone room in wait for some hours, not sitting out and getting hot with the other bottles at the festival. When he'd finished, he licked his lips, and the dwarf took the cup and drank in turn. It wasn't sufficient to the ritual – they had to hold it up and say a few prayers before each drinking, but it was good for an ice breaker.

“So, um....” Bilbo racked his mind for what questions were allowed and what weren't. “Did you....get to see much of the festival?”

“I had to have a ritual bath this morning,” the other answered, setting down the cup. “And spend the rest of the day in meditation on my role.”

“Oh. I guess that's a no.” He'd had a very normal bath this morning, for his part, but it was ritual in that it was routine...

“There will be time enough for that later.” His mouth twitched toward a smile, and Bilbo thought he liked the sight of that a great deal. “Just to....be clear. It's alright if you don't want to move forward.”

Bilbo's brow drew in with consternation. “Don't you?”

The dwarf gaped at him. “I- I just didn't want you to think you had to-”

“I'm not scared.” It would have been a lie, but with a little liquid courage in an empty stomach, Bilbo was feeling positively Tookish. He puffed his chest and lifted his chin. “I don't know if you noticed – but Yavanna picked _me_ to play this part. I'm no wilting lily.”

The dwarf smiled again. “I can see you're not. Forgive me, I meant no offense.”

They were quiet again, before Bilbo said, “Of course, if you're nervous, I'll completely understand if you want to back out.” There was more quiet, and then the dwarf shook his head. “Well, then I guess we're stuck here until....anyway.”

His bridegroom wouldn't look at him, and finally the Smith huffed and turned toward the table, sorting through the different covered dishes. “This is...” He picked one up, sniffed it, and set it back down. “And this-” He stared at it, and turned helplessly toward Bilbo.

It was a funny powder. He dipped his finger in and tasted it cautiously. “Oh,” he smiled. “It's cinnamon and ginger.” The dwarf was blushing, and it made Bilbo consider for a minute. “Oh, that's, uh....meant to get us in the mood, I take it.”

“Do you in the Shire use it for something else?”

“Baking, primarily...” He wasn't going to be thinking of biscuits in quite the same way after this...The dwarf nodded, staring at it as if gathering his mettle, before he tilted the dish back and began to pour it into his mouth. Bilbo cried out to stop him, but it was much too late, and he was coughing, with clouds of powdered spices now permeating the air. “Heavens to mercy-” He grabbed the cup of wine, and the dwarf choked it down, sputtering lessening. “I see that's why you're the Smith and I'm the Queen of the Earth.”

“Apologies...” It came out in a hoarse mutter, but Bilbo couldn't help but to laugh gently, taking out his new pocket handkerchief and dabbing at his unfortunate groom.

“Well – between the spices and the wine, I'm sure you'll feel more than ready for the occasion.”

The dwarf nodded, and a kind of steel went into his gaze. “Yes – we should not delay any longer. If you're unafraid, and so am I, we ought to begin.”

“Oh, um, well-” He was slipping off that blue cloak, and Bilbo felt all his protests dying on his tongue. He was quite the intended: a blue-grey tunic stretched tightly over a muscled chest and arms, and he had an air of authority and certainty that made Bilbo feel rather melty inside. Before the hobbit knew what was what, the dwarf nodded at him once, took his face between his palms, and pressed their lips together.

Bilbo squeaked briefly, but it was a chaste kiss. After a second, he closed his eyes, and willed himself to relax. His shoulders drooped with the released tension, and before he realized it, his hands had come up to rest on that....exceedingly firm chest. It made the dwarf's mouth open against his own, and Bilbo felt his breath leave him softly and slowly. What was he doing...It was like he'd really stepped into another role, for it all came very naturally....And this stranger, he was so very tender as his mouth moved against the hobbit's, and their tongues began to meet in a thoughtful, hesitating way. He tasted like ginger and wine, and a whimper escaped Bilbo before he even knew it. The broad hands left his face and wrapped around his torso, fingers digging into the velvet waistcoat. His own hands slid up to the shoulders...It was, unquestionably, the best part of the festival thus far, and he was very grateful they were tucked away where no one could see, or he'd burn to death from blushing.

They parted for air. The dwarf, Bilbo realized, was leaning against the slab bed for support, and had hauled his partner up in the strength of his arms, so that the hobbit's weight was resting on a frankly ridiculously muscular thigh. Bilbo was panting and his cheeks were red – but this seemed to be easier than his fears had made him believe. “W-we, um,” he licked his lips. “We have to say the words.”

The other nodded, setting him down and refilling the cup with wine. He handed it first to Bilbo, who turned to the altar and lifted it, struggling to remember the archaic words. “ _Alla Yavanna, melda t_ _á_ _ri_ -” He stumbled over the blessings for the harvest, the sanctity of her union, but came to the end of it at last and drank from the cup with a sense of relief. The dwarf took it from him and gave blessings in a language he couldn't even begin to guess, but he drank in turn. Then he was looking at Bilbo again. “Well. Uh – we're 'married,' as it were, and-” He didn't need to say anything else. That cinnamon and ginger concoction must have worked, for the dwarf had him in his arms again, and the kissing was....a little bit fierce. Nothing too hard, not quite bruising, but it was much more intense than before; the bashful bridegroom was the cocksure husband.

The dwarf picked him up and deposited him – gently, since it was stone – onto the palette. It was more comfortable than Bilbo had feared, the cushions did a lot to soften it, so that it was firm, but still plush. His paramour seemed to curse under his breath at his hurry, and Bilbo realized it was because he'd been put down still fully dressed. Swallowing a little and meeting those terribly blue eyes, he moved his fingers to the buttons of his coat. The intense gaze of the other lit up.

The hobbit slid the waistcoat off himself, but his embroidered shirt was still on, and the undershirt beneath it. The dwarf's thick fingers hesitated just above the tiny bone buttons, as if again getting permission, but Bilbo simply lifted his chest from the bed so they touched again. No other assent was needed, and the buttons were undone swiftly and carefully.

Every article was treated with care and folded on one corner of the little table, until Bilbo was bare to the waist, while the other was still fully dressed – minus the cloak. He was beginning to feel self-conscious again, for the dwarf's eyes were very thoroughly assessing. “Hairless as one of the Ainur,” he muttered, which made Bilbo sit up again.

“I am not!” he protested, lifting one leg. “I have very fine hair on my feet, I'll have you know.”

“So you do,” the dwarf glanced down, smirking with amusement. “Forgive me, it was not intended as insult – I've just never seen anything like you before.”

“And shan't again with that kind of talk...” Bilbo grumbled, slowly leaning back once more.

“Is it alright if I say-” but he didn't finish, clicking his teeth together again and blushing. Before Bilbo could press, one heavy hand was placed against his ribs, just beneath the heart – and stroked slowly down over his torso; he was being pet. Bilbo could have melted. “...you are very attractive,” he at last muttered, and if Bilbo could have kept his eyes open, he would have been treated to the site of a very red dwarf.

“Lucky for you, isn't it?” he murmured in response, leaning in to every touch so that now the dwarf applied both hands. He tangled his fingers in his curls, he stroked down his throat and his thumbs ran over his collarbone...Bilbo didn't even mind at all by the time those heavy hands stopped at the buttons of his trousers. He shrugged them off easily, and liked the way the dwarf lifted his hips and peeled the cloth back – before daring to plant a kiss on his bare leg. “I, um.” He swallowed again. “I should like to say the same of you.” Before his partner could start and take offense, he continued, “By which I mean, I'd be able to, if I saw more of you....not that you aren't already- oh, I'm mucking this up.”

The dwarf was frozen. It seemed he found undressing himself a much harder prospect. “...Well. Yavanna can help the groom as well.”

There was almost something to relish in that; Bilbo got to be the one setting the pace and reassuring with tender touches. First there was the tunic, and then a light linen shirt beneath that. “Heavens to-” He was a little tongue-tied. He was corded with muscle, with thick, dark hair across the chest and pointing like an arrow down the stomach. He didn't mean to whimper as he did, but Bilbo could hardly help himself, and stroked the dwarf as he had just been petted. He was rewarded with the feeling of his chest expanding in sudden breath. The hobbit thought he could get used to this.

He didn't get very far, for the dwarf tilted his chin back up for more kissing (no easy thing to do, since he was rather preoccupied staring at the slab of marble on display before him). But it made him crumble into the other, so that Bilbo's arms wrapped around his neck, and he straddled the other's hips, and they lay like that on the bed, skin becoming slick against skin. And he could feel the dwarf's arousal beneath him, as well as his own, and they could stop right after this, if they wanted to – a few pumps of the hand, and the ritual would be complete, and no one would say boo to that. But it was one night of blessed anonymity, and he'd never see this...spectacular figure again. He'd never, ever have to confront anything about tonight – so why not push the limits and taste the fullest of fruits? It was, after all, his wedding night.

It seemed the dwarf was of like mind: he rolled him now, so that Bilbo landed beneath him on the cushions, and pulled down his small clothes before slipping out of his trousers. He briefly thought that maybe this was a very foolish idea because there was....a lot of dwarf, and not quite so much of hobbit. But he leaned over and dusted Bilbo's round belly with kisses, murmuring nonsense on how soft he was, and he really didn't care, he wanted to be _ruined_ like this.

The paramour grabbed for the first dish, the one he'd initially sniffed and abandoned, and Bilbo watched him dip his fingers inside. This wasn't more spices; he noticed, in the candlelight's gleam, that it was slickery. He felt his throat constrict, but those blue eyes met his, and first began to stroke his shaft, carefully and in a way that was almost reassuring. Bilbo couldn't exactly relax into that, breath hitching and heat pooling in his belly – but it did make him more willing for whatever came next. Before the dwarf could reach for more of the stuff, Bilbo stayed his hand. “I, um....I haven't kissed you as much. Stand – stand just like that....” He didn't quite come up to his shoulders, it was a little embarrassing. But nonetheless, Bilbo slid off the stone bed, and carefully pressed his lips into that equally stony chest. The hair there was soft and a little musky, pleasantly so. Bilbo kissed tenderly, fingers running against the other's hips. He could feel his heart beating like this, rhythmic and heavy...He kissed further down, where the ribs stopped, and the skin was softer still. He kissed at the joining of hip and thigh....He kissed the very tip of him, and his lips came back with a bead of damp, sticky and salty, and he licked it from his mouth with a very strange hunger he'd never known before. He liked the sound that elicited, too, and did it again, lips barely parted; another deep gasp. He just barely sucked the tip into his mouth, eyes closed with how much he liked it – the feel, the sounds, even the taste – but he got no further.

He was pushed back onto the bed, and watched as the dwarf's hand dipped back into the alabaster dish. “You'll finish me before we consummate.” His voice was so deep, almost a growl, like gravel, and it made Bilbo shiver beneath him. “I'm going to give you a good harvest...and you, you will give me wealth in the mountains.”

Those thick fingers played between his legs, at the puckering of skin; Bilbo braced himself against the other's strong arms. “I-I want something else, too.”

A single digit slipped in, and not slowly, seeming to think it was better to get beyond the pain as quickly as possible – and it wasn't a lot of pain, even if he did sink back with a wince and a hiss. It was sharp, but brief, and the dwarf's other hand worked his shaft in a very conciliatory way, thumb sliding over the tip. “What else?” His blue eyes were consumed with heat, drinking in the little figure writhing beneath him.

Bilbo gripped the right arm, the one whose finger was pressed within him – and he pulled him closer. The dwarf moaned, but pressed in a second finger. Bilbo was panting, struggling, but so, so ready. “Th-this....I want it to be good.”

Those two fingers curled within and he nearly came from the way they pressed. “I swear,” said with such intensity, Bilbo could hardly stand it. “I will play the part well. I will.”

He couldn't take any more of this. Bilbo's hands scrabbled for the dwarf, pulling him down on top of him and wrapping his legs around his hips. No further invitation was needed, and in a moment, he had thrust in with the same intensity that he had used with his hand.

That....hurt a great deal more. Bilbo was hissing and clawing at his back, eyes shut tightly and whining piteously. The dwarf had the kindness to hold still so he could pull back a little – adjust, accustom himself, breath – and lean his hips back up again, this time slowly. There was still that burn; he did it again, all the while the other held still, like a statue. It was becoming easier. Bilbo used him like his for a moment, accustoming himself to the sensation as it slid from pain to aching pleasure, and then into something glorious. He moaned; the other began to move again, mouth sinking against his throat.

Was this, then, the marriage of Yavanna and Aulë? It was....spectacular, even if it was only a mortal fraction of the grace of the valar. His bridegroom began to thrust into him, deeply and slowly, and Bilbo keened beneath him in a very encouraging manner. The scrap of his sense that remained was scandalized, he sounded like a trollop; the rest of him cared not one whit. They moved together like this, and it was outstanding, and the hobbit's hands clawed at the solid, broad back like he could not get a firm enough hold. He loved the sounds of the other's breath, and the heat of his skin, and the slickness of the sweat between them; he loved that thick, black hair, and the tufts of it that were scratching his chest and leaving red marks; he loved the pleasure, and the fulfillment of the bridegroom's vow. He came as he never had with just his own hand and a few dirty thoughts to spur him on. His vision was white with intensity, he fell back twitching and whimpering helplessly, shivering with delight. The dwarf's thrusts were sharp and a little painful, but feeling him spasm against him and finish hot within him....it was too good for words. They lay like that for a few minutes, panting with exertion, not looking at one another, but not drawing away.

The dwarf braced his arms on either side of Bilbo, muttering, “Forgive me,” and pulled out. He felt himself whine suddenly, and his good sense began to come sliding back. He very soon would not be Yavanna's vessel any longer, and to continue to act like he was would be the height of impropriety. Before he could do anything, however, he felt the scrape of something against his skin – oh, the wooden dish, collecting what they had done. The rest of the offering. He heard the clack of it set back against the altar, and then felt a soft, damp cloth against him. “To clean yourself with,” the dwarf murmured. He was becoming mundane himself, no longer the bold Smith.

Bilbo muttered his thanks and did, watching as the other did the same with another cloth. With his last bit of boldness, he said, “Who are you?”

The dwarf startled, glancing at him and then away with a blush. “We're not supposed to say.” To admit to being anyone other than the prescribed roles would not fulfill the ritual.

Bilbo propped the cushions about himself like a throne, and rested his hands behind his head. “I want to know anyway.”

“I...” The dwarf looked at the altar and said, “am Mahal.”

For a moment, Bilbo felt a rush of excitement. “You- oh.” The look on the other's face made it very clear; that wasn't a name, it was the dwarvish term for Aulë. Yes, of course he would do that... He sighed pensively, rolling over. “I don't want to go out yet.” He left unsaid that the dwarf could, if he so chose.

There was silence for a moment, then the candles were snuffed. Bilbo would have been disappointed – except he felt a warm, broad hand on his hip, and then the heat of a body sliding in behind him, so they were nestled back to chest. “There's two more nights of the festival,” was the deep whisper. “You can enjoy them, and rest tonight.”

One of the hands was wrapped around him, Bilbo could hold it against his chest – and he did. “Yes....” He said nothing else, because it would break the spell. Instead, he settled in the dark, and let his eyes drift closed. He did feel very tired after all that.


End file.
